Lavanderie
by ShadowedSoulSpirit
Summary: Alternate Universe where the first time Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi meet is not in the classroom, but at a laundry mat, as adults with different lives when they find each other walking on the same path. Warnings Inside.
1. Washer

**Lavanderie**

* * *

 **A Boku no Hero Academia fanfiction.**

 **Summary: Alternate Universe where the first time Aizawa Shouta and Yamada Hizashi meet is not in the classroom, but at a laundry mat, as adults with different lives when they find each other walking on the same path.**

 **Warning: Some cursing, Maizawa. I'll be including western references as the narrator is a westerner despite the setting being in Japan.**

* * *

He met him at the laundry mat on a Tuesday night.

If his dark hoodie pulled tightly over his eyes or the juice pouch loosely hanging from his lips were any indication, Aizawa Shouta rarely dragged himself to the yellow plastic chairs at three in the morning, on a _Tuesday_ no less _._

He scratched lazily at his chin, his eyes scanning his phone. A washing machine, the color of pale and faded Pepto-Bismol, rocketed in the corner, banging against the metal next to it.

Usually, he was out patrolling. But a late morning turned into an even later night, and he couldn't bring himself to slink through the streets searching for lowlife thugs, so he settled for his second and least favorite obligation—laundry.

The mat was empty, as one expected. It was the type open 24/7 and probably used for anything other than its laundry services. The tiles were chipped and a few stolen. They were solid gray and more than likely hadn't been mopped in years, so all Aizawa could see when he looked down was a black blob.

The laundry mat was convenient—around the corner from his house—so it was only logical that he used it instead of spending the money to fix his broken unit.

But rarely did he ever come on a Tuesday. Something was different, something he couldn't place as he chewed the end of his empty juice pouch.

The washing machine gave one, final sputter, before dying and releasing a ding. Aizawa rose from his plastic seat and stalked over, stringing long sleeves around the lump so he could form a black ball.

The front door opened, indicated by the ring of a bell, but Aizawa ignored it and carried his sopping clothes to an open dryer. He caught a glimpse of him—a young man, probably his age, so wrapped up in his headphones that he probably didn't know he existed. Aizawa popped the lid open, threw his clothes in, fed the machine the money, and cranked it up to 50 minutes.

 _Almost an hour,_ he thought, _I can get a good nap in._

The laundry mat was small compared to its services. There were maybe 30 washing machines, stacked on top of each other on the wall opposite of the entrance, 15 in a line. Parallel to that was the row of dryers, 14 of them, (the last one on the right was broken, and has been broken, for as long as Aizawa had been going there) so you could scoop your clothes from the washer straight into a dryer behind it. A wall of windows made the storefront and the perpendicular wall, stapled with two sets of yellow plastic chairs, three in a row, each triplet welded to the same piece of metal.

Aizawa liked to sit on the chair furthest away from the windows, closer to the last wall that was nothing but exposed brick. He slunk back to his spot so he could lean his back against the brick and stretch his legs out across the remaining chairs.

The laundry mat felt a whole lot tinier, and a whole lot louder with a washing machine and a dryer going at the same time. Aizawa glanced through his bangs at the young man again as he danced to a silent beat, organizing his next load for the washer.

 _How many clothes does he even have?_

He couldn't imagine why someone like him would be at the laundry mat early in the morning. Aizawa looked like he crawled from the alleyway and matched along with the missing grey tiles and the putrid pink machinery. But _he_ was a different story—long blond hair that tapped his hips and shimmered under the fluorescent lighting, his mouth quirked up in a permanent grin as his thin hips shimmied to the beat of his music. His clothes were an entirely different thing, leather jacket and leather pants, the cost of which probably exceed the amount Aizawa spent on his entire wardrobe. He looked like he could have six washers at home alone.

Aizawa looked at him for a few more moments, at the glimmer of green eyes beneath the silver frame of glasses, before he looked back at his phone. _3:45._

 _Guess I shouldn't worry about him stealing my clothes._

A poor excuse of a wastebasket sat beside the broken dryer at the end of the row, and he tossed his empty juice pouch at it, shrugging when it tapped off the rim. He'd get it later.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and dozed off, swirling into a mist of black. It only felt like a few minutes before a hand was on his shoulder.

He jolted awake, his mind reacting immediately on defense before he realized it was the young man, his headphones around his neck, and his mouth transformed into a sheepish grin.

"Sorry to wake you, but your laundry is done," he said, stepping back.

Aizawa checked the time. _4:37._

"Oh." It was all he could think to say as he stepped up from the chair, stretching his arms above his head.

The man returned to his laundry, and Aizawa grabbed his black bag and made his way to his machine, scooping the heated fabric into it. He felt tired and ready for bed, but he stopped beside the trash can on his way out.

The juice pouch was gone, tossed inside the plastic sheath even though he was for sure he dropped it on the tile. He cast a glance at the man—he was humming to himself now and folding a finished load on another dryer. He thought about saying thanks, but he decided against it, slipping out the door into the cold night.

* * *

The next time he went to the laundry mat, it was a Monday night, and he had more than just a pack of clothes to wash. A long week filled with long nights made his bag feel like a thousand pounds as he heaved it on top of a dryer. It was somewhere around two, but the bags around his eyes made it feel like it was at least six in the morning.

He riffled through his bag, pulling out each article, scrutinizing each piece. Tears and rips bore into his long sleeve shirts, and he sighed at each one he uncovered. The villains had been troublesome that week, in their longer than normal fights and their obnoxious capturing time. His hair kept getting in his eyes as he worked, and finally fed up with it, he unzipped his jacket and tossed it on his bag, tying his hair out of his eyes.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

He worked on his first load of laundry, throwing it in the washing machine. When he shut the door, he caught a glimmer of blond on its glass surface; and when he turned around to grab his second load, the bell rung, and the young man slipped through the door, pinning a cellphone between his shoulder and ear. He raised a hand to Aizawa like they were friends, and he only responded with a nod.

"Nemuri, come on!" He laughed, planting his overly-stuffed bag on a dryer at the other end of the row. "Stop teasing me like that!"

 _A girlfriend, I guess._ Aizawa thought as he started his second load. There was little he could do about the ripped shirts for now, so he shoved them to the bottom of his bag, moving his jacket onto the dryer and out of the way. The washers buzzed next to each other, humming, and he felt like he could fall asleep leaned up against them.

But _his_ voice cleaved across the silence, and for once, Aizawa felt like his quiet time was being interrupted as the blond man let out a howl of laughter and smacked his hand on the dryer surface.

"No way! For real?" He seemed like a lively person when he wasn't calmed by music—maybe too lively for his standards. But there was something musical and animated about the way he talked, and Aizawa couldn't help but start to drift off listening to it too, so lost in the buzz of his voice that he almost missed his phone ringing. Almost.

He pulled it out of his pocket. _We need backup_ was followed by a street address, and Aizawa cursed silently, pulling the doors open to the washing machines. Some water sloshed onto the floor before the machine puttered off, and he shoved all the wet clothes he could in his bag. He missed the fact that it went silent, that the young man had stopped talking as he threw the strap of his bag over his shoulder and stalked out quickly, pulling the yellow goggles that matched the yellow, plastic chairs from under his shirt.

Tonight was going to be a _very_ long night.

* * *

It took him two days to realize his favorite hoodie was MIA.

He realized it after a long night of hero work, where all he wanted to do was curl up on his couch with his jacket and a juice packet; but his favored black coat wasn't on the hook by the door, or under the discarded clothes in the living room, or on the couch or tangled in his bed sheets. He swore to himself silently and settled for a blanket that night, but it wasn't the same, and wouldn't be the same until he got _his_ jacket back.

There were very few places he went during the week, let alone with his coveted "fuck off" jacket. So, the next morning, when he woke up too early and too pissed off, he changed his clothes and walked out of his apartment with a juice pack between his lips to constitute as breakfast.

Aizawa had a general dislike for the public population during the daytime. The sun was too bright and made him squint, the sidewalks were too crowded, and people would blatantly run their shoulders or purses or briefcases into him no matter how hard he attempted to zip seamlessly between them—not to mention the offbeat stares as he slurped absentmindedly at his juice, chewing at the cap.

The logical start was the laundry mat. It was the closest to the apartment, and one of the few places he frequented with his jacket. It was empty when he pushed the door open with an elbow, the bell giving a hollow clang.

He used the same few washers and dryers, alternating only on occasion, so he made a beeline for the far side and spotted the note taped to the washing machine instantly. The paper fluttered on his approach, its pink ink bleeding into the reflection of the glass. He plucked it off, moving the plastic cap off his juice packet to one side of his mouth.

Whoever wrote it, wrote like a kindergartener. It was in all caps, the top half in a mixture of kanji and hiragana, and the second part in the all-caps English that made his eyes burn. The note writer was obviously a bit of a _showoff._

 _To the litterer who wears all black and does laundry early in the morning,_ it read, and he grunted, his eyes weaving over the next line. _You left your jacket when you ran off. Didn't want to leave it here, so I took it with me. Here's my number so you can get it back._

From what he could understand, the English was a repeat of what the Japanese said. _In case I'm not Japanese,_ he thought, as he gnawed the juice pack. The note wasn't signed, but it was obviously the only other person in the laundry mat when he left on emergency hero work.

 _He should have left the damn jacket here though._

He debated with himself about whether to call him at that moment, or to wait until the afternoon, or just avoid calling him altogether and buy a new jacket—an illogical option, he finally decided. Aizawa settled on texting the number a brief message.

 _Saw your note. Just leave the jacket at the mat. I'll pick it up._

He waited for a few moments, staring at his dark screen, before chunking the juice pack into the trash. He went home feeling a little less bitter, but still unhappy, that he would spend another sleepless night without his jacket.

* * *

He didn't hear back from the elusive jacket snatcher all day the next day. He was starting to convince himself that the guy actually _stole_ it and left a fake number, but he couldn't help but check his phone more often than he normally did.

He finally decided he would go to the laundry mat and see if he showed up that night. He didn't have much laundry to do, so he settled on stripping his sheets from his bed, so he could justify the trip and not come back empty-handed.

He slunk off to the dilapidated structure around 2:30 in the morning, his bundle secured under his arm. A young woman perched herself in _his_ chair, reading a book as her washer buzzed. She didn't look up when he entered, and he didn't attempt to make eye contact as he went to his end and started washing.

The first thing he noticed was it wasn't just the normal washer-that-sounds-like-a-jackhammer sound, but it was something else, an overlying soundtrack placed over his usual complacent days. He glanced at the woman as she turned the page. It was music, but she had no headphones and looked like she had more entertaining things to do than listen to a guitar sheer across the boring haze. As he sorted his load ontop of the dryers, his eyes instinctively drifted to the source, a black box screwed high up on the brick-exposed wall.

 _Why the hell buy a radio when half your services don't even work?_

Granted, it was a _shitty_ radio. Most of the sounds got warbled coming from the speakers, and it looked like it had been stripped from a dump and salvaged. Least it matched the appeal of the place.

The woman and Aizawa never made any exchange. She buzzed between his chair and her clothes, finally folding them and leaving after twenty minutes of Aizawa leaning against his occupied washer and checking his phone.

The music that sputtered from the old radio was some new, popular songs with too much bass and too many mentions of drugs and parties for Aizawa to care for. He didn't hear much of it from his position, but when the woman finally left, he circled his way to his chair and plopped down, stretching out.

The radio gave a quiet cackle, and Aizawa closed his eyes.

"That's it for tonight, listeners!" the radio host announced, and his eyes slipped open, catching his own poor reflection in the windows. "I hope you enjoyed this round of music, and remember, be kind to one another, and more than anything, be happy! Tune in next week!"

" _Sorry to wake you, but your laundry is done."_

" _Nemuri, come on!"_

So the elusive jacket snatcher was a radio host. _That explains why he has too many clothes._ But it also didn't explain why he would keep his jacket hostage.

Aizawa kept his eyes on the windows, at the fluorescent line the lights drew in the darkness, at the occasional lone car that passed by. His washer sputtered on.

He almost disliked the laundry mat silence.

* * *

He rolled over in his newly cleaned comforter to a text that afternoon. He snoozed through the first alert but vaguely caught the second, sitting up to check the time. _1:30._ His eyes drifted to the message notification.

 _Sorry, got busy on the weekend! Might do some laundry this evening. Mind stopping by?_

He scratched his cheek for a moment before he remembered the events of that night, the radio host/jacket snatcher and his attempt to locate him. He grumbled quietly, rolling onto his side as he slowly typed out his response.

 _What's your definition of evening?_

He waited, running his fingers through his bangs. There was a ding within seconds.

 _How does 4 sound?_

Aizawa groaned and flopped back on the bed. He texted a quip _that's fine_ before he slid the comforter to his cheekbones and drifted off again, gripping the phone tightly in his hands in case he missed another message.

* * *

He was still grumbling about the jacket snatcher's poor choice of time when he sulked to the mat. More people than he's ever seen before swarmed the washer and dryer units, and he _hated_ it.

An unattended baby screeched from the noises as his mother chomped at her gum and scrolled through her phone. An old man grunted and talked to himself as he put dry clothes in the dryer first by mistake, then pounding on the machine when it ate his money. A woman sat on the broken dryer at the end, while her boyfriend buzzed between the washer and her, and Aizawa cringed every time he pecked her lips and she giggled nervously.

Too many people, too much chaos—it made him cherish his early moments alone.

He eyed his chair for a few moments, but it was too close to the mother and the wailing baby, so he pinned himself close to the only exit, counting under his breath and hoping this sudden wave of sensory overload would crash before it reached him and overtook him, before it choked him and drowned him—

The bell rung, and he caught the door before it smacked into him, staring at the blond man behind the glass, their hands touching at the same place. He gave a sheepish grin, looked around, and waved Aizawa outside.

He had never been more thankful to leave.

The jacket snatcher was about an inch taller than him, his green eyes now distanced behind a pair of shades. Despite the steadily warm climate settling over Japan, he was still in his all leather outfit and pinned his long hair from his face. Aizawa noticed _his_ jacket, slung casually over his shoulder.

"Sorry about being slow getting back to you," he started, but Aizawa kept his eyes fixated on the soft black fabric intertwined in his fingers. "I get pretty busy on the weekends and all-"

"Because you're a radio host," Aizawa said, moving his eyes to his face to catch his shocked expression before it dissolved into a quirked eyebrow.

"I didn't take you as a person who listened to the radio," he joked.

Aizawa jerked a finger back at the entrance to the laundry mat. "I don't. For some god unknown reason, they just installed a radio in there. I heard you."

The jacket snatcher nodded his head thoughtfully. There was another vibe to him, a calmer vibe when he wasn't jamming to music or screaming into a phone. This was the radio host persona, the swindler with the smooth voice and upbeat attitude.

"Fair enough." He jerked out a hand. "I don't think I ever introduced myself. I'm Yamada Hizashi." He retracted his hand when Aizawa gave it a glance, instead holding out his jacket. Aizawa snatched it up and instantly felt safe.

"Aizawa Shouta…" He ran his fingers over the sleeves before slipping it on, glancing at him briefly. "And thanks."

"No problem."

They stood in an awkward silence for a few moments; Aizawa considered turning and walking away when the blond—Yamada, he should call him—tried to strike up a conversation.

"So do you always go to the laundry mat at night?"

Aizawa exhaled slowly. "When I have time."

"You must be a night owl."

"Only time I like to be outside."

Yamada bobbed his head and grinned. "Guess I'm the exact opposite, huh? I hate staying up late—only really do it on the weekends.

"Then why did you do your laundry early in the morning when I've seen you," Aizawa asked, and the blond scratched the back of his head.

"I like to call those my crisis moments when I literally lose my mind and have to do my laundry to keep me sane." Aizawa raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He quickly waved his hands and added. "Not that I'm actually crazy or anything!"

"Right." It was really the only thing he could think of. Aizawa had always struggled to formulate his words without malice, but it just seemed a little easier now, like he wasn't jumping around some hidden societal concept of politeness. He shoved his hands in his pocket and thought for a moment, searching for something to grasp.

"So, you're not doing laundry, I guess."

Yamada looked at him questioningly for a moment, and then the light bulb turned on, and he laughed. "Yeah, I honestly forgot. I was in business mode to get here, I left my clothes at home. Besides," He nodded to the mat, "I hate when its overcrowded like that."

Aizawa spoke, "That's why I do mine early in the morning."

"That makes sense! It was peaceful those two times I tried. I'll have to try it more often."

Aizawa opened his mouth to say more, but it was obvious the conversation had whittled down to nothing. He mumbled a quiet "thanks again" before retreating to his apartment, easing the door shut behind him. He had his jacket, and that was supposed to be the end of it.

But it wasn't the end.

* * *

 **This is part one of two. I hope you enjoyed so far and stay tuned this week for the second update and conclusion.**

 **Thanks for reading.**

 **Soul Spirit**


	2. Dryer

**Lavanderie**

* * *

The next week, on a Thursday, Aizawa Shouta slunk into the laundry mat during his early morning hours, his hood slung up to hide his pained expression. Everything ached from his arms down to his arches, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he dropped the bag onto the dryer.

The radio sputtered out some classical music—all he could really hear was the piano—as he leaned against the washer and tried to get his bearings. The night before had been nothing less than a nightmare as he became a villain's Swiffer in a narrow alleyway. He woke up in the morning aching, swallowing ibuprofen down with a juice pack to ease his suffering. He was still wearing his shirt from the night before—he couldn't raise his arms high enough to change.

Everything screamed, every muscle pulling taunt and every nerve firing bombardments of messages to his brain that he was overwhelmed just by pulling out one shirt at a time from his bag. His hair punctured his eyes, but he couldn't pull it out of the way.

Finally, after about five clothes, he grumbled and gave up, sliding to sit down on the gritty floor. He leaned his head against the washer and stared up at the popcorn ceiling with three tiles missing. He couldn't be motivated to complete the task, so he just sat there, feeling his shoulders and arms and back pulsate and tense with aches.

"Shouta?"

He would have shot straight up if he could, but all he could do was turn his head quickly and deal with the slight flinch. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or not to see the blond— _Yamada—_ a lollipop hanging limply from his mouth.

Aizawa couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "Having another one of your crisis moments?"

"Are you okay?"

The look of worry from an otherwise complete stranger caught him off guard. The first thought of snarky remarks "Well I look better than you" dissolved under that look, and he quickly turned his eyes to the ground, so he didn't have to look at it.

"M'Fine," he replied, trying not to flinch when Yamada sat his bag down and walked over to his slumped form. He just wanted to be left alone.

Aizawa caught the scent of watermelon when he kneeled. _Why watermelon?_

"Did someone hurt you?" Yamada asked, running a piece of hair behind his ear.

He snorted. "This? It's nothing. Just some villain got in a few cheap shots is all."

"So you are a pro hero then," Aizawa opened his mouth to retort, but the blond continued. "Did you have anyone look at your injuries?"

He screwed his mouth shut for a moment before meeting his eyes. Yamada was back to wearing the silver-framed glasses, but he had a feeling they weren't prescription.

He replied, "I don't need to. It's just some scrapes and bruises. I know what a broken bone feels like."

"When did it happen?"

He wanted to scold Yamada, tell him "you don't know me, why care", but he felt like he _had_ to answer them if he was going to prevent the blond from dialing 911.

Aizawa replied. "Yesterday."

Yamada looked between his laundry and him, before pointing a hand at both. Aizawa got the message, but he felt like he had to spell it out too. "Yesterday? And you seriously decided 'hey, today, I'm going to do my laundry'. For real?"

"I had the time. It's only rational not to waste it."

The blond stood up, shaking his head. "You're crazy! I take a least two days off if I get hurt!"

Now _that_ was something. Radio host, he could clearly see. Pro hero—well that was another thing entirely.

Aizawa glanced up at him. Yeah, there was no way he was a pro in his tight leather pants and _ridiculous_ choice of facial hair.

"So what, you're a sidekick?"

Yamada sputtered, and he couldn't help but smirk faintly.

"Are you serious?! A sidekick!" He shouted, "How can you not know me, _my listener!"_ He added the last part in English, not that it made any impact, and Aizawa just blankly stared at him like he sprouted a second head and couldn't stop talking.

He gave a dramatic sigh and pouted. "Dude. I'm Present Mic."

Aizawa had to let that one ferment for a while. He felt like he heard something about the hero—he occasionally heard of the ones who soaked up the publicity and ruined the early morning news for him—but he rarely remembered faces, let alone names of the too flashy and too annoying people that popped on the screen.

"Never heard of you."

Yamada crossed his arms (it was starting to get comical, watching him act like a child), before pointing a threatening finger at him. "Well, I've never heard of your either Shouta!"

He tried not to pause at the use of his first name, "Good."

"Good? What do you mean good!" The blond threw up his hands in frustration. "How is it good that people don't recognize you as a hero!"

"I don't want to be recognized," he stated, shutting his eyes when the fluorescent lighting suddenly seemed overwhelming.

He could hear Yamada shuffling around, grabbing clothes, and he assumed he had finally given up and was going to do his laundry in silence—until the washer above his head snapped shut, and he opened his eyes. The blond was feeding the machine some coins, and Aizawa's bag laid empty on the dryer. He shot him a questioning look.

"Look, man, you're not in any condition to be doing your own laundry," he explained. "So let's just say you'll owe me one, okay?"

He didn't like feeling in debt to someone, but he almost didn't care. The washer machine spiraled vibrations down to the one he was leaning against, and it felt so good against his tense muscles, he found himself drifting off before Yamada could talk to him again.

* * *

Aizawa started to get into the habit of going to the laundry mat twice a week.

Granted it was irrational—he didn't have nearly enough fabric in his entire house to constitute the switch. Sometimes, he went to just sit in the chairs, slurping his juice pack, _just waiting._ Sometimes, he would work on patching his work clothes, the ones with the tears and rips, to help him pass the time. The nights seemed longer then they had ever been.

Yamada texted him, on and off. At first, it was just checking up on him—Aizawa refused his help on getting home after his laundry was done, to which the blond insisted he would text him and he would have to text back, or he would storm through all the streets of Japan looking for him. He agreed, to get him to shut up about it, and almost the moment he shut his door, his phone was bombarded with notifications.

But now, it was just random stuff. Occasionally, Yamada had asked if he was doing laundry that night, or if there had been any interesting villain activity. One time, his phone sputtered alert after alert while he was working, and he finally got fed up with it vibrating in his pouch that he silenced it for the rest of the night—that was his _first_ mistake. The first texts were harmless questions about why he always wore black (he made the same complaint the night he did his laundry) before it spiraled into him inquiring about his life, and that if he wasn't dead he would have to call him because he wouldn't like going to the laundry mat without his "laundry buddy" (something Aizawa cringed at). He just texted him he was fine and received about thirty responses after that. The man honestly didn't know when to _shut up._

On the weekends, the patrols got slow. (He thought the cool nights were driving the villains to be more active during the days). He had nothing better to do, so some nights, he would perch himself on the edge of a building, put one headphone in his ear, and listen to his phone, his eyes ever scanning the streets below.

That was when he first learned the name of Yamada's radio show— _Put Your Hands Up_ Radio. He had texted him once about it, why the career and radio, and the blond simply explained that he loved music and the way it made people happy. Aizawa's response of "It doesn't make me happy" spiraled into a _twenty-three_ -text thread on the importance of musical enjoyment in the everyday life, and he couldn't help but smile faintly behind his scarf.

During the next few months, they made a schedule (for "laundry). Once a week, they would meet during Aizawa's hours—or whenever Yamada would have a life crisis—and every so often Aizawa would stop in during the radio host's "reasonable hours" (4-10) before he went patrolling for the night. The company was not overbearing; it was honestly a change from the monotonous routine he seemingly trapped himself in for years. But it seemed like his life was constantly moving, constantly changing, and sometimes the unpredictably threw him for a loop.

Sometimes he wasn't ready for the punches, and if he couldn't defend himself, he would only be pummeled.

* * *

The first time Yamada missed their scheduled laundry day, Aizawa thought nothing of it. He was a hero after all. He felt satisfied that Friday when he heard him chattering like normal on his radio show through the speaker of his phone. He was fine.

The second time he missed laundry day, he began to wonder. The steady stream of 100 texts a week turned into a trickle of short responses.

 _You remember what day it is?_

 _Sorry Shouta, busy!_

 _I have information about a villain that might give you trouble during the day._

 _I'll call you about it soon!_

Just like that, his new routine simply dissolved into his old routine of skulking to the laundry mat in the dead of night, sucking a juice pack down. The mat seemed emptier then it was before.

Some kid finally stole the radio off the wall, and he stared at the empty space, wondering if something had been stolen from him too.

He sat his usual load on the dryer and walked over to his chair, slipping his phone from his pocket once he sat down. His fingers hovered over the contact. He had texted him in even less frequency then the blond did, but he had never attempted to call him. The number glared hard at him, and he considered giving up and going home to his bed and a nap. But rationality overruled, and he snapped his finger against the call button and held it up to his ear.

It ringed, once, twice. He curled his fingers around his empty juice pouch, running his eyes over the colors and the lettering he knew by heart.

"Hello?" Yamada's tired voice dripped into the phone. _He had been sleeping._

"Yamada," he said. He could hear the covers quiver.

"Uh, Shouta?" Was that nervousness he detected? He took one last slurp from his juice before tossing the packet at the trash. It went in.

"Are you avoiding me?" He asked bluntly, pressing his back against the plastic chair. Yamada sputtered.

"Of course not! I've just, I've just been-"

" _Then why aren't you here right now."_ He kept his voice level, though his irritation was palpable.

"Well you see Shouta-"

"Who's that?"

Aizawa's blood ran cold. It was a female, her voice crystal clear through the receiver. The barely audible "who's that?" rattled through his brain like Yamada had repeated it using his quirk. _He's with a woman._ He ended the call right there, his phone hanging limply from his fingers, his black frame reflecting on the grey and solemn tiles.

Yamada didn't need to explain. He had his answer.

 _Why did he feel upset about it?_

* * *

Aizawa finally, _finally_ coughed up the money to have the unit in his apartment repaired. No more long nights at the dump of the laundry mat, of napping in ugly yellow chairs and hoping no one stole his clothes or he got some disease for just being in the area. He gave the money to the repairman and shut the door in his face, running his fingers through his hair. His nights of the laundry mat were over, just like his nights spent with the man named Yamada Hizashi.

The blond had tried to call him back, of course, to explain himself. Aizawa would never answer and didn't bother to read texts. He got in the nasty habit of just leaving his phone at home, so he would have nothing to bother him when he went out on patrol or his weekly juice runs.

Everything was normal, and everything became a routine. He started working on a larger patrol route at night, taking up more time than he usually dedicated. It kept him busy, and busy was good. But he had a bad habit, and it was hard to break.

It took him awhile to start leaving his headphones home on Friday. It seemed so natural to bring them, that he caught himself when he was already out of the house clutching them in his hands, and he couldn't bring himself to take it back. It didn't matter—he had only been talking to Yamada for a few months—but he was letting those few months ago, and sometimes that was hard, but if he thought about it too long, he would chuck his headphones somewhere in the abyss of his apartment and not bother searching from them again.

Long nights made his juice supply run out faster than expected. He woke up one morning (undesirably around 11 am) with the last box empty. He cursed himself, scratching his head. He had to get more, that much was evident—so amongst his grumblings, he showered and tied his hair up, slid into his hoodie, and took off for the supermarket.

It was within a five-minute walk, in the general opposite direction of the mat. It was only open between 10-10, horribly inconvenient for him most of the time, but he didn't feel like jogging across town at 4 in the morning after a patrol. He approached the sliding doors looking as wrecked as he felt—solid black lines beneath his eyes, rugged facial hair and wearing all black. He looked like death if death just got dumped by someone that was "decent" for a human.

His juice was on the second aisle amongst the kid choices. He felt no shame as he tucked three packs under his arm, reaching for the fourth when some greedy mother snatched it up and left the shelf beyond his hand empty. He turned to glare, only to realize it wasn't a mother, let alone a woman, who stared back at him with green eyes and a nervous smile.

"Hey… Shouta…" Yamada spoke softly, and Aizawa brain had to compute—yes, this _was the coveted former jacket snatcher—_ as he instinctively took a step back.

The first thing he noticed was his clothes; a loose shirt and skinny jeans that looked nothing like the man he had been talking with the past few months. Not a piece of leather in sight. He tightened his grip on his juice boxes, shifting them so he could hold them to his front and use them as a shield if needed.

"Yamada," he replied, and they both heard the coldness in his voice. Aizawa couldn't explain why he felt so bitter about this, it wasn't like he was invested—but he almost felt betrayed and forgotten, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time, something he knew deep down was extremely hard for him to forgive. "What are you doing here."

The blond looked down at the 24 box of his juice pouch, the yellow cover dancing in his eyes. He slowly held it out, and Aizawa tentatively took it, unsure if he was receiving a bomb or a peace treaty.

"Honestly...?" He said softly, his eyes shifting down. "I figured... You would come here eventually. So I've been coming by everyday… just checking…"

"So this is an ambush."

Yamada's eyes met him for a moment, startled, before studying the shelf behind him. He shook his head.

"No... well… yeah. We need to talk."

Aizawa didn't feel like talking. He felt like he had talked enough, put himself out there too much, and now he was exposed and at a disadvantage in this arena. He took another step back, and Yamada quickly followed it with his own, his face pleading.

"Please, Shouta, I have to explain—"

He cut him off. "You don't need to explain anything. I get it."

"No, you don't get it, you-"

"You're seeing a girl, and you decided to ditch me for a while to be with her." Aizawa dumped the juice into his shopping basket.

"Shouta I—"

"And I don't care if you do. Your life is yours." He turned his back to him, scooping up his basket.

This was to be the end, the finale. He would never see the blond again, the radio host who could play the guitar and could sing, who screamed when he saw a spider, who could patch up Aizawa better than any nurse and send him jokes when he was least expected them. He took a step down the aisle, cursing himself for the tightness in his throat, and hoping he could make a quick escape from the supermarket—

"Shouta, I think I like you!"

His voice thundered through Aizawa's body, and for a moment, he thought he used the quirk before he realized it was his heart pounding loudly in his ears. Yamada had said it loud enough to bring the entire supermarket, including Aizawa, to a standstill, and his mind tried to rationalize _what the hell he just said._

He felt like everyone's eyes were on him, and he couldn't take it. He spun on his heel and quickly retreated down the aisle.

"We'll talk tonight, at the mat." He muttered quickly as he passed the blond, checking out at record speed so he could leave with his juice and his pride, so he could leave those haunting eyes behind him. How could he respond to that in public?

That was the problem. He couldn't.

* * *

That night was quarantined off as a night in his patrol schedule, but he went slower, hoping to taper Yamada off into leaving. He took until 3:30 to arrive, still dolled up in his scarf, and his goggles pushed to his forehead.

The blond was waiting for him.

 _Shit._

He slid inside the door, to the empty place he had abandoned only days ago, but it seemed to change drastically. His yellow chair was faded and tilting off to one side. The tile seemed even more monotonous and flat, and he tried to focus on all the little detail instead of Yamada as he got up from his seat and walked over to him.

"Shouta…" he said.

Aizawa didn't respond. He was giving him this moment to state his case, and if he didn't make it well enough, he would disappear into the night. He had made that resolve, but hearing Yamada release a sigh put a small crack in it.

"Look. I know this is probably freaky for you." Aizawa shot him a glance, and he waved his hand. "Okay, okay. The time you called me. That girl you heard? That was Nemuri. She's a good friend of mine, a big sister. I'm not dating her, I swear."

Aizawa didn't want to respond, but he was obligated to, and the words felt like a bitter drip from his mouth. "Then why was she at your house early in the morning. For a slumber party?"

Yamada's expression fell into a frown. "She came over because I was having a hard time."

"Because your ratings have gone down?"

"Because of you."

Aizawa felt like he had poured the gasoline for his own makings, but before he could do anything, Hizashi already dropped the match and all of it exploded back in his face.

Aizawa twisted his hand in his bangs. "So this is my fault now."

The blond shook his head and took a step forward. Aizawa wanted to step back, but his back was already against the door.

"No, of course not, it's my fault," he explained, "I really liked being your friend Shouta—it was great, I had a lot of fun talking to you, it felt so easy."

"You liked being my friend, and you decided to ignore me for two weeks."

Hizashi let out a sound—no, _Yamada—_ of annoyance, scratching at the back of his head, before he threw his hands up in the air and spoke in the same, breath-shattering volume as the supermarket, even though he only raised his voice a few octaves.

"I'm bi!" he said, with no context, "And the more we talked, I realized we were hanging out a lot—and that I might like you. No—" He corrected himself. "That I was sure I liked you, and I knew you wouldn't like that, you'd call it troublesome, so I tried not to think about it and then I got to thinking so much, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable or make you want to stop being my friend… I just… needed time to figure things out…"

Aizawa didn't know whether it was the sadness in his eyes or the droop in his shoulders that shatter the resolve he developed to never forgive him. Could he really trust him? Put himself out there, like Yamada was, laying themselves at each other's feet.

 _Did you really think we were just friends?_

He thought back to the time Hizashi threw away his juice pouch while he napped, when he fell asleep holding his phone waiting for his message, when he adjusted his schedule to accommodate him, of all those cold nights he listened to the music he didn't understand only for the brief commentary in-between the tracks, and he muttered something so softly, Hizashi missed it.

"What was that…?" He asked quietly, taking a step forward. Aizawa didn't run away, didn't _feel_ like running away as he repeated what he said again.

"I'm gay. Not aromantic."

His version of _I might like you too._

Hizashi's eyes shot so wide before they flooded with questions, useless questions that turned into 23 long message chains that Aizawa only felt like answering with a short response.

"And… I believe you."

The blond looked like he was going to burst into tears. These situations had never presented themselves to him, and it felt strange when arms wrapped around his torso and trapped him against Yamada's warm body, so he could hear the voice that almost put him asleep through the vibrations in his chest.

"Thanks… Shouta…"

So Hizashi liked him. There was no further explanation for that; and about the girl, he truly believed there was nothing between them. As for Aizawa's response to the words he shouted at the supermarket—it was simple. There were no words needed, and Aizawa just let Hizashi hold him, his mind as still and blank as the cars that idled on behind the windows.

They would give whatever was fostered at the laundry mat a try.

* * *

He met him at the laundry mat on a Tuesday night.

Their first kiss was on a Sunday—unexpected and sudden, sloppy in its execution, and Aizawa nearly slaughtered him for trying it in public—but they got a second chance that night, in private, where it ran soft and sweet like honey.

A few months turned into a few years, and life seemed to speed by. Hizashi came to his house to do his laundry—and then he stopped coming over and started living there, taking up two-thirds of his closet and hogging the shower in the morning. He bought Aizawa's juice pouches, and Aizawa occasionally accompanied him to his radio job, ghosting in the background. The one-time Hizashi suddenly pulled him in to give his own commentary, the radio world almost lost their precious host that night.

Hizashi was the first to get offered a job at U.A., closely followed by Aizawa's own invitation. At first, he flat-out refused. It took some coaxing from his boyfriend to give it a try.

Sometimes, they would walk by the laundry mat, Hizashi's hand slotted over Aizawa's, a rare public display of affection Aizawa would allow, and they would stop and talk about it. Hizashi explained he had fallen pretty quickly for him after their first encounter, and Aizawa would always stare at his yellow chair in the corner and hide a smile.

Hizashi would laugh and squeeze his hand.

* * *

Seven years they had been together, and Aizawa wondered where the time went. He knew the answer: into movie nights or coffee dates and endless late nights drifting off to sleep in each other's arms. It had been seven years of testing their faith, and their relationship withstood the test of time—as did Aizawa's love for his juice pouches.

He was slurping on one noisily, draped across his couch, grading papers as his cat curled up at his feet. Some of these students are idiots, he finally decided as he gnawed on the plastic in frustration. Some of them could _barely_ spell their own _names._

He heard a loud _thump_ from the back of the house, and he raised his head at the same moment as his cat.

 _Hizashi could have just been murdered. Should I check?_ He turned back to his papers, the red pen moving over the sheets. _I'll check if I smell a body rotting._

"Shoutaaaaa!"

 _Guess he's not dead._

Aizawa lowered his pen and glanced back at the hallway when Hizashi emerged from the back, his hair twisted and sticking out from even odder places then he normally wore it, and his sweats were drenched from his ankles to his knees.

He stared at him blankly. "What were you doing back there."

Hizashi threw his hands up. "The laundry!"

Aizawa looked him down, and then up, raising an eyebrow. The blond made a few wild, incomprehensible gestures before heaving a sigh, letting his shoulders droop.

"I think the washing machine is broken," He admitted, and Aizawa could not melt the faint smile forming on his mouth.

"That's a shame," he said, looking back at his papers, marking the top page with a solid 'F'. "Looks like you'll have to start going to the laundry mat again."

And Aizawa laughed at his own joke before the man he loved could sputter out a whine. Today was a Tuesday.

Things really do come full circle.

* * *

 **A small idea that was supposed to be a 1000 world spiraled into this mess. I really love the honest relationship these two have, and I hope I was able to portray that in this fanfic.**

 **A special thanks to my friend Saru as my Present Mic interpreter.**

 **I hope you enjoyed reading.**

 **Soul Spirit**


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